Druid's Daughter (15 page)

Devon Randall received the message that evening at the
Three
Chimneys Inn
in Bibbenden. He was amused every day when he walked out and
could only count two chimneys. The garrulous landlord relished telling him the
name came from a corruption of the French words “trois chemins” for the
conjunction of three roads where the Inn stood. During the Seven Years’ War
with the French, French prisoners kept at nearby Sissinghurst Castle were
forbidden to go beyond the junction of the three roads in the village. The Inn
and its unusual name were a source of great pride to all the villagers.

Whitewashed and half-timbered, the old inn proved a
delightful place to stay. The friendliness of the townsfolk more than made up
for tiny rooms. He’d walked twice a day to Viviane’s home, a distance of only
about three miles. The countryside looked and smelled delightful and he felt as
if he were walking through one of the most beautiful gardens in England. Of
constant entertainment and interest were the fertile fields of hops he passed
along the road. No wonder the ale at the
Three Chimneys
was excellent!

Viviane’s home was as charming as he’d expected, but much
larger. A spacious country manor surrounded by fields, streams and a delightful
wood blazoned the fact his love was not destitute. A big plus was that although
he wasn’t making progress with Viviane at least all his walking provided
exercise.

Devon tapped the envelope from Lance against his thigh and
whistled through his teeth. He did not need this. He badly wanted to stay where
he was, hoping he could dream up some way to smash Viviane’s resistance. Still
these murders were his responsibility, at least until they were solved. He knew
no way in honor to avoid going back to London.

His face resigned, he sat down to write Viviane a short note
telling her the recent developments. He ended his explanation for his departure
with a few short sentences. “I will tender my resignation as Commissioner of
the Metropolitan Police the day I return to London, to take effect at the
termination of this case. Then I’ll be back to claim you. Your Devon, loving
you for all of time.”

While Devon was throwing his few belongings into his valise,
Lance demanded a session with his Commander, who heard him out, looked down his
lorgnette and again told Lance he was in charge and to use his best judgment.
Exactly what Lance expected, but the formalities were there to be observed. Not
for the first time he wondered if he’d been too hasty in refusing to be
promoted to Commander. This one was worse than useless.

In his own office, he sent for a Bible. Doubtless clever
Morgan had already looked up the references. As suspected, both verses targeted
sinners. Isaiah thirteen verse eleven contained the words “and I will punish
the wicked for their iniquity” and Proverbs fourteen, verse nine ended with the
phrase “and the lamp of the wicked shall be put out”.

He sat thinking for a long time. The stiletto type knife had
again been used, but this time after the victim was already dead. The heart was
directly pierced but from a frontal angle. The stabbing itself revealed a
frightening violence, even more than those before. A great deal of strength was
needed to drive a thin knife so far into a body. Even more worrisome loomed the
fact there was no need for this thrust to the heart. The first two he’d killed
and then mutilated. The first stabbings were in identical spots and a
methodical killer could have ascertained his target from books. This new direct
hit from a different direction disturbed Lance.

He was afraid the murderer’s violence was growing. He was
beginning to form a hazy picture of the villain. This was a seriously
disordered mind. A killer who was convinced he labored under God’s sanction and
directions from the Holy Bible itself.

He’d already ordered a search of doctors in London against
whom complaints were once filed. A necessary first step and yet it consumed
more policemen than he liked. He’d not forgotten a doctor was a chief suspect
in the Ripper case and that particular doctor immigrated to the Americas. Now
Lance felt he needed to extend the search to medical schools where students had
dropped out of training, or were released for some kind of unusual problem.
Lance thought it likely the perpetrator of these crimes evidenced disquieting
traits a long time ago. There always lurked the chance the killer had studied
on his own, but the accuracy of the latest stabbing seemed to argue against
this theory.

Yes, an urgent search of teaching facilities was overdue. He
would have to find the officers someplace.

Lance rose, stretching his big body by vigorously feigning
some fencing moves. He needed a true match and would make time for one. He’d
drop in on the fencing gymnasium later today. He knew from experience nothing
cleared his mind like a session with an equally skilled partner. The talented
instructor was his favorite and maybe he’d be lucky enough to find the man
free.

With a small sigh, he gave one last false thrust and sank
down again at his desk, leaning back for a moment. So far fencing had proven to
be no use in banishing his lustful longings for Morgan. She was there, glowing
in his mind, the minute he laid down his épée.

He pulled a fresh tablet and some pencils toward him. Then
he threw them down and started for the door. He’d have to get his Commander to
assign him more men. He wanted every man he could commandeer to be placed on
the new search for the killer. This came before he could make a list of duties
for men he didn’t yet have.

* * * * *

The killer was dressed in nondescript clothes although he’d
been careful to clean himself up. He aroused no comment in the pub near
Scotland Yard many policemen fancied. If anyone noticed him they looked past
him as if he weren’t there. He was used to this. All his life he’d felt
invisible. Often he railed in his mind against the fact no one paid him the
slightest attention, but tonight he was grateful.

Tonight was his third night in the pub. He sat in a corner,
nursing his pint and listening to as much conversation as he could. His hearing
was keen and he could pick up much of what was said at the tables around him.

Suddenly he heard the words “Lucky Lance”. Cursing to
himself the fact the speaker was across the room, he got up and began wandering
around as if without purpose. Edging closer to the table, he could soon hear
clearly.

“That woman Lucky’s been taking with him sure is a looker.
No wonder he got his nickname.”

There were a few chuckles and then one of them said, “Funny
name though for a girl. Morgan. I thought Morgan was a boy’s name.”

“She’s all girl, though. Have you seen her? Purtiest green
eyes I ever did see.”

One of them suddenly noticed the man who’d stopped to
eavesdrop. The murderer lingered, spellbound in exultation. He was finally
starting to get the information he needed.

“Hey, you. Get along with you. Don’t go trying to hear your
betters talk. Get off.”

The officer half-rose from his seat and the nondescript man
scurried away. He was content with the name “Morgan”. There could not be many
with such an unusual name and a few questions in the right place would tell him
the rest. There probably wasn’t more than one Morgan in all of London with
green eyes. If there were more than one he’d hide himself and see which one
Lucky Lance visited.

Well pleased, he left the pub. Not a person noticed his
departure.

He chortled as he sidled away. The Chief Inspector wouldn’t
be called “Lucky” much longer. He was about to lose his woman. Lose her in a
manner sure to haunt him for the rest of his life. What a wonderful revenge he
would take on them both. The Chief Inspector would never be able to forget how
horribly his Morgan died.

He busied himself thinking of details of her death he meant
to etch in the Chief Inspector’s mind for all of eternity.

* * * * *

Lance lowered his head onto his hands and groaned. He was
getting exactly noplace in the current investigation. Following leads on the
newest murdered girl turned up exactly nothing. She was as anonymous in her
life as the other victims. Another girl who’d somehow been recruited or who’d
turned to prostitution to merely survive.

She seemed to have no family to mourn her and if no one
claimed her she’d be buried by the city in a pauper’s grave, in a pauper’s
coffin. Lance had taken time to attend the lowering of the other two murdered
girls into the ground. He was the only one present. No one else appeared to
weep or say a kind word for either one. Lance commended their souls to God in
his mind. He left word he wanted to attend the burial of this one as well when
the coroner released the body.

The futility of such a barren life haunted him. He began to
think even more seriously about marriage. He’d like to at least leave a child
or two who might grieve at his death. He cursed to himself as his ever
disobedient mind drew images of the beautiful children Morgan would produce.
Would they all have her gorgeous green eyes? Would they have her laughing attitude
toward pretension and her piercing intellect?

My God, what could he do to erase her from his thoughts? The
last thing he wanted was a wife who would eventually ferret out his every
thought. He wanted a calm, no-nonsense wife who’d not bother him and would
quietly do her duty to him and his children. Was that too much to ask?

Still, he could use a fresh viewpoint on the present murder.
He decided to visit Morgan and discuss the latest developments. Or rather the
lack of them. At best she might be of help. If not, perhaps he could finally
find something about her to give him a justifiable reason to ignore her charms.
He didn’t think he could go on like this much longer without losing his pitiful
mind.

At six o’clock in the evening Lance’s carriage pulled up to
the McAfee residence.

Lance didn’t have the faintest idea the murderer was lurking
behind some bushes at the side of the house.

Waiting.

Waiting for Morgan.

* * * * *

The killer experienced no trouble pinning down Morgan’s full
name and address. It took just a few drinks, bought for a police officer who
could not hold his liquor well. When he judged his victim to be slightly drunk,
the killer casually mentioned Morgan’s unusual name. Had the officer ever seen
her and was she as beautiful as he’d heard?

Eager to be agreeable to the nice laborer buying him drinks,
the sergeant answered at once.

“Oh, she’s a beauty, she is. You should see her.”

The killer pretended to take a large swallow of his bitters.

“I think I
have
seen her. Morgan Thomson, isn’t it?”

“No, no.” The half-foxed sergeant was delighted to be in the
know. “The one I’m talking about is named Morgan McAfee. She’s a rare one. Most
be-you-ti-ful eyes I ever did see.”

The killer took a true swallow this time. He had exactly
what he needed. He must be the smartest man in London. Those fat-headed doctors
who’d dismissed him from medical school at King’s College would never know how
wrong they’d been. Or was there a way of telling a reporter so they’d have a
hint of their idiocy? He’d have to think seriously how to get in touch with the
newspapers. He hated to have his brilliance unacknowledged.

But not yet. For now he needed to concentrate. Morgan McAfee
would soon pay his price for her interference. She’d be sorry not only she’d
hampered a genius, but horrified she’d ever lived to hear of him. After she was
dead, painfully dead, he’d see about getting recognition for his intelligence.

* * * * *

The killer went to Morgan’s house and boldly knocked at the
door. He didn’t expect to gain entrance but he hoped for information. With the
best of luck, she might even wander into the hall and he’d know she was at
home. The rest would be easy.

Jackson answered the door and the killer’s eyes narrowed as
the stuffed-up bastard’s expression changed to hauteur.

“The kitchen is around the back. Although we have no
positions open, you should inquire there.”

The killer tried his best smile, which seemed to further
repel Morgan’s butler.

“I wanted to see Miss McAfee, please,” he said.

“She’s not at home now nor will she be to the likes of you,”
Jackson snapped out as he slammed the door in the caller’s face.

Cursing in a low monotone, the killer pulled his hat further
over his face and went back down to the street. He saw a curtain move and knew
the butler was checking to make sure he left. He went down the block and turned
the corner, waited about ten minutes and then reversed and again approached the
house. He hid in the tall hedge at the side of the yard. He’d wait for missy to
come home or go out. Either one would do and he had all the time in the world.
It was hard for him but he could force himself to be patient. It was only a
matter of time until he caught up with the treacherous bitch.

The delay was longer than he’d expected and frayed the
killer’s patience. For four hours he waited in the shrubbery, afraid to move
lest he give his presence away. He could barely exercise his self-control not
to jump, scream, or rush from his hiding place and pound on the door. He’d
found his other victims quickly. The ever-present tic in his left eye grew
frantic. Still he waited.

Cursed silently, twitched and waited.

He couldn’t have been more surprised or pleased when he saw
Chief Inspector Lord Lance Dellafield’s carriage draw up at the house. For just
a moment, he shrank back and then he realized with a spurt of joy he might be
the one to be lucky.

He stilled so he could hear.

“I didn’t realize she was still residing with Master Jamie.
Should I look for her there, then?”

Dellafield’s voice was strong and clear and the murderer
heard every word.